Hope
by Svetlanacat
Summary: Liberty: One of Imagination's most precious possessions.Ambrose Bierce. The Hope conclusion.  My thanks to periwinkle27, again, who agreed to be my beta, for her help, her precious advices... and her patience!
1. Chapter 1

He tossed and turned, hoping to settle himself comfortably. Well... for all that he could. Whatever he did, whatever he tried – and he smiled bitterly at his paltry attempts – there was little chance that he could manage to get out of this trap on his own. Nor any chance that anyone could come and rescue him.

They hadn't bothered to bind him. What was the use, anyway? He was, (so to speak,) canned. Really canned in this container, this very unusual cell. « Terrifying » was the right term for it. He took up almost of its length and its width. The cell was low-ceilinged, so that he could only stay laid down. It was... a can. A pitch-black can.

He lay in utter darkness; he was blind. He couldn't see anything. He couldn't hear anything. He couldn't smell anything. He couldn't... But he didn't let himself think about it any longer.

His hand slid down his chest. And that was another amazing thing. He knew for sure that he hadn't been dressed like that in the Thrush clandestine lab. As far as he could judge, he wore a shirt, a tie, and what felt like a suit. Hardly practical.

This cramped cell was designed to frighten the prisoner, to throw him into utter panic. Aside from that, he had to admit it, he hadn't been tormented. No torture. He hadn't been beaten. At least, he didn't remember any beatings. No memory, and no marks. He didn't feel bad. Not the slightest pain. It didn't really please him, anyway, because that was quite unusual, too.

Waiting was all he had left. At a certain point they would take him out of this place. Not his friends. The others. They would interrogate him, at last. Or again; he didn't know. And they would shoot him, finally. But, and he smiled at the stimulating thought, he wasn't going to make matters easier. Even in the weakened state he was, he would sell his life dearly, when they took him out. If they took him out.

He had shouted. He had yelled. He had struggled like the very devil. He had torn his nails, broken his knuckles.. he had done it. Because it was what he had to do. What he should have done. He moved each fingers of his hands, slowly, tentatively, and felt no pain. Not the slightest discomfort.

For a long time, he had hated to be locked up. He had managed, more or less, to overcome this shortcoming. This absurd weakness. No one – well, one - had any idea how much he hated that.

But he was on the edge of giving in. He had fought to the bitter end, but he was alone. Alone, lost in this almost tangible darkness, in this total silence. He was powerless. And this cell, this « can », felt like a coffin.

And... what if they left him there? No food. No water...

However, he was neither hungry, nor thirsty, though he couldn't remember his last lunch. He sneered. He couldn't even remember when he was incarcerated there...

Air... He took a deep breath.

He had tried. He should have.

Total panic overwhelmed. He hit the ceiling as hard as he could. He was about to tear his nails, to break his knuckles, his knees. He shouted, he yelled, he screamed.

In silence. The most terrifying, utter silence.

Reaching the end of all his resources, he burst into tears. But he had no tears.

They had dressed him.

They hadn't beaten, tortured, questioned him.

They hadn't given him food or water.

They hadn't locked him up.

He had read some heartbreaking stories; coffins scratched by the nails of those who had been buried alive.

His coffin wouldn't be scratched.

They had buried him. He no longer was alive.

They had honored his memory, probably. Perhaps, some of them had mourned for him.

And now, they had forgotten him.

So, that was Dante's Inferno... The torment caused by your deepest fears, the most visceral fears. The fears that eventually killed you, because death was the only way out.

A merciless punishment.

A endless torment. No way out.

Because you are dead.

You are not cold. You are not hungry. You are not thirsty. You are not in pain.

You don't know since when you have been here.

Time... Time?

Since one day? One year? One century?

And you can't even cry your heart out...

-Doctor! Doctor!

-Yes, Mr Solo?

-Come on, look!

-I don't see anything, Mr Solo. I am sorry. It's about one month, and... Hells bells!

A tear. Running down the white, emaciated cheek. One tear. But a tear.

-He cries, Doctor. It means something! He... He is coming back!

-Perhaps. I don't know.

-Illya... Illya! Open your eyes!


	2. Chapter 2

_Here is the sequel of Hope., and all my thanks, again, to periwinckle27 for her help._

A huge wave of sensations overwhelmed him, submerged him, and he felt literally like drowning.

Odors, first; unpleasant, sweet, stinking, delicious odors. He was sobbing, choking suffocating. Something, someone, was tearing his throat, his lungs, but – he realized it – he was breathing. He was alive. They had eventually come to take him out of his coffin, of his can, and he couldn't help feeling so grateful towards his enemies for that! He stiffened; didn't he have any pride at all? He clenched his eyelids, tightly.

Sounds; thumps, clangs, clinks, rustle and voices. Some whispering, some urging, some calling, calling his name. He heard words that he didn't understand. That he did not want to understand, nor to hear, for if he did so, he would have to face an unbearable situation, a terrifying threat. Several voices were still buzzing, one especially insisting.

Touch. They had noticed his tears, the tears which were dampening his cheeks. They knew. He was weeping shamefully, like a child. He wanted to yell at them; he wanted them to beat him, to kill him, instead he felt the soft caress of a smooth towel brushing his forehead, then wiping up his tears. The cruelest gentleness. The same treacherous hand was now easing him onto a cool, scented pillow, and the venomous voice whispered words he desperately tried to ignore.

He had to hold out against his enemies, and he knew he could cope with them. He had to hold out against his own fears, and he was used to it. Being « canned » again would kill him? So, what? But at the moment, he was even deprived of this feeling of relief that everything would soon be over. He had to hold out against _himself_.

Hope. Which hope? Hope of being rescued? There was no hope. His partner wouldn't come for him, now. Hope of selling his own life dearly? He wasn't able to move. He wasn't even able – and that was the most terrifying thought – to hate his enemies. He was teetering on the brink of collapsing, of giving up all he believed in. Hope of dying? No way.

A strong, treacherous, gentle hand grabbed his own and squeezed it. A soft, venomous, concerned, urging voice talked to him, ordered him to do something, gently, insistently, repeated the order, again and again. A familiar voice repeating unflaggingly the same words, words he heard, words he understood.

-_Open your eyes, Illya. Look at me._

_-Don't push him, Mr. Solo. He needs time to adjust._

_-Open your eyes, Illya. Look at me._

Blurred shapes danced above him. Familiar features, closer, worried, then smiling.

_-Nice of you to join us, my friend._


End file.
